There is a space the world seldom notices.
A moment stretched thin—where one bell has ceased its ringing,
and the next has not yet begun.
The air still quivers.
The ear still listens.
The body still waits for what is not yet here.
This silence is not emptiness.
It is not absence.
It is a threshold.
In this breath between resounding and return, something lingers:
the echo that refuses to fade,
the memory of vibration still moving through stone, skin, and soul.
Perhaps life is lived most truly in such intervals—
not in the strike, not in the clamoring echo,
but in that suspended hush,
where the world holds its breath,
and we are asked to feel without grasping.
What do you hear in that silence?
What waits for you in the pause between two bells?
